One Hundred and Twelve Days
by Appointment
Summary: It took 112 days for Lysander and Victoire to make each other their own. Written for the Next Generation Romance Challenge.


one hundred and twelve days.

written for the next generation romance challenge.

victoire - lysander.

* * *

><p>He was just an inattentive looking boy who wasn't able to keep his feet planted on the ground, a boy whose favourite song was the low thrum of reality trying to beat down on his imagination. During the days where crisp, flame-licked leaves fell to the ground like the abandoned hearts of lost lovers, he was just a boy who she knew by name and by his outlandish way of going about things. Lysander. One would rarely meet an odder boy than Lysander Scamander, other than his twin brother Lorcan. Both had stunningly blue eyes, the color of forget-me-not's and hair so pale it was almost white.<p>

She was just a girl who he sometimes saw through the crowd of girls with heavily lined eyes and brutish boys. Victoire Weasley was a popular girl, almost too popular for her own good. She was beautiful, and there was an ethereal glow about her that made boys scamper behind her heel and girls bawl and throw garrotting fits. With her strawberry blonde strands and her aquamarine eyes, it was often noted that she could have anyone she wanted, though she figured this wrong. _Almost_ anyone.

Until days when life returned to the branches of trees and flowers flourished, the two of them had remained simple strangers, the only word spoken between them for months being 'thank you' when a textbook or two fell out of hand in the corridors. On the first day of spring, the two of them had sat in the library, slight inches apart. He sat with his nose buried in a book, looking wholly absorbed. She had only glanced at him once or twice before she had finished her homework, and she had found herself hurrying up to the common room, no word said between the two.

The next time she had been in the library, he had sat himself next to her, seemingly to do his work, but he only pulled out the same tatty, old book. She stole a few more glances, before he finally looked up from his ostensibly enthralling book, catching her in the act.

"You keep looking at me." said Lysander, in a stupefying calm voice, his great blue eyes looking vague and dotty.

I just wanted to know what book you were reading, it looks quite interesting," she lied; she had no interest in such a grungy looking book. It seemed he knew that, too.

"You know, you don't have to be so polite," he said conversationally, running a hand through his pale blonde hair. "Honesty is witty, I think." He turned back to the book; she now saw the words 'Xenophilius Lovegood' penned onto the front of it. His eyes met her own for a brief second. "He's my grandfather. These are rough stories from _The Quibbler_."

She opened her mouth to respond, but then a loud brunette came speeding around the corner. "Vic, you have to come see this, Alexandra and I were in the common room and then Henry –" The raucous looking girl clad in green made an 'Oh'! sort of noise before she made a sort of beckoning motion towards Victoire. She looked from her friend to Lysander, but he only continued to look down into his book. She stood up quite abruptly, shoving the chair back into place under the desk. She motioned to apologize for the informality of the closing to their conversation, but he seemed to know what she was thinking.

"Go off with your friends, you wouldn't want them to think you'd rather spend your time with an oddball like me," he added, to Victoire's mild dismay.

Though, as soon as her friend was several steps in front of where Lysander and she were, she whispered "I would, and in my opinion, you're rather interesting." He smiled into the paperback. "Meet me here again tomorrow."

The book fell out of his hands.

* * *

><p>Days and nights grew thick, humid and heavy, and the two of them became closer as summer grew nearer. Sometimes Victoire and Lysander would sneak out from their common rooms in the dead of night to meet by the lake, crickets lulling sleepy eyelids to a close. Even in the dark, she noticed how the sun's rays had osculated and flecked his skin, his hair; his self. They spoke as friends, but lovely, unsaid words fell out of their mouths awkwardly, like baby blackbirds from the top of a tree.<p>

"You know, I used to think you were a bit stuck up," he said, fumbling around in his pocket. "I've learned not to base people on appearance." She smiled at him, but then wrinkled her freckling nose when he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Those are disgusting, Lysander," she said, simpering at the smokes.

"They're alright," he said serenely, holding it in his hand, wand in the other. "_Incendio_." The cigarette lit up at once, and filthy smoke began wafting from the blazing tip.

"Gross," she said as he inhaled. "Those are banned, anyways."

"I'm not much for rules," he said, a smoke ring floating from between his perfect-pink lips. He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth, and observed it, like a fine piece of art. "Interesting, aren't they? Muggles?"

"I suppose," she said, "My grandfather is truly fascinated by them. They do invent such bizarre things."

He took another pull on the cigarette and looked above, the net of stars reflected in the great, prominent eyes he inherited from his mother. He flicked the burning roll-up from his fingers, and it landed in the water of the lake with a slight hiss of steam. Victoire looked up at the inordinate, vast night sky, the smell of smoke settling in the heavy, peaceful air of summer.

"It's pretty," she said softly, and she felt a cool hand on top of hers. She looked down at the curious sensation, and then looked up; her teal eyes met Lysander's.

"You're pretty."

They searched each other's eyes for a moment more, looking for something, anything that would predict what would happen next, and one of them found the answer. Victoire's fingers ran up Lysander's long arms, her pretty face reached up to his, but she paused. His eyes burned into hers for the second that they were only millimeters - _micrometers_ apart, and then, she pressed her warm lips onto his. His breath was stale and sweet – like champagne and the bitter smoke of quondam cigarettes, his lips soft like rhapsodies of summer love. Her sugary, fragrant perfume settled in his lungs just as they pulled away to catch their breath, and his cheeks grew warm.

It was now that he really noticed her, in all of her beauty. It wasn't the irrevocable good looks of a veela, but it was _her_, Victoire Weasley, _the girl_, not Victoire Weasley, the veela. With wicked eyes poring for answers and selfish lips that make dirty words sound pretty, he loved her. For her, innocent camaraderie with Lysander was not nearly enough, no, she _needed all of him_, she needed and she wanted that interesting, strange boy who was made of paradoxes, and who had rose-tinted vision.

Within the silence of the dying summer night, they knew they had made each other their own; all in one hundred and twelve days.


End file.
